At work, I went back to my project. I'm a planner, and it was what we called "grant season." I had a Community Development Block Grant application I was working on, seeking funding for road improvements in one of our little town's industrial parks.
Oh, hell, you don't care about any of that. I guess I'm just kind of proud, to be honest. One of the things a planner does is handle those applications and as a grantsman, that's what we call ourselves, I was very good. My batting average was about.800, good enough for the big leagues by anybody's metric.
Anyway, I worked on the application, handled a panicked call from a City Administrator, showed one of our junior planners how to do a labor market analysis, and did a proofread and edit on another application. This was by one of our junior planners, they tend to get the slam dunks while I get the projects that look impossible.
I'm doing it again. Well, okay, I'm good at what I do and I'm kind of vain. But enough of that.
When I got home, Arlene greeted me with a beer, a smile, and a kiss.
My wife is older than me. If the numbers matter, I'm 34 and she just hit the BIG 5-oh. I met her at a college bar when I was in graduate school, finishing up my Master's degree. I was 29 at the time and had joked to the students in my class, I was a Teaching Assistant back then, that in just a few months they wouldn't be able to trust me anymore. I was a history major and loved working little archaicisms (if it's not a word, it should be) like that into the discussion. You know, that slogan from the 1960s - never trust anyone over 30?
Anyway, she came into a bar I frequented in those days. Not a "college bar"
per se
, but a place where the older students hung out. Not as loud as a true college bar, but still pretty much a meat market.
When she came in I was smitten. Okay, I don't believe in "love at first sight" or any of that crap. But I WAS smitten.
She might as well have had a big sign reading "COUGAR." She was pretty obvious, actually.
Arlene's a big woman. She might run to truly fat now that I've talked her into quitting her stupid dieting, but she's definitely a big woman. At 5'8" she's tall for a woman. Just a couple of inches short of my 5'10". She's busty, her bras are 44FF and her measurements, by my actual tape, are 44-38-48. The extra four inches at her hips are from big hips but mostly from her truly spectacular bubble butt.
That night she was dressed in the perfect cougar uniform. A sleeveless blouse showed off her big arms. She's one of those women who accumulate fat at the back of her upper arms, something I have always found sexy on a woman. The skirt ended a little above her knees but fringe around the bottom took it below them. She had on nylons with a seam up the back, ruler-straight I was happy to note and I made a quick bet with myself that they weren't pantyhose either, and open-toed high heels, not true stilettos, but the three-inch heels made her a bit taller than me. Completing the uniform were big hoop earrings and a big, jangly, bracelet.
She was a bit over-made up too. She had gone a bit heavy on the eyeshadow, had on those ridiculous false eyelashes that I have never found attractive but I do think are sexy (if that makes any sense), and her hair was done big. Oh, not Dolly Parton big, but she had obviously spent some time with a brush and probably a rat tail comb.
Her hair was actually pretty damn good. She's a blonde, and one of those natural blondes with that thick hair. There was no hint of grey that I could see, though, and I suspected Miss Clairol or, more likely given her kind of well-tended look, something more expensive, in a white bottle with simple black lettering, from the salon she visited regularly.
So I turned on my best boyish grin, the one I practice regularly in the mirror, stood, and did the slight bow, arm sweeping gesture to offer the stool next to mine.
She paused, looked around the room, doing a slow survey, then met my eyes and nodded.
As she mounted and got seated on the stool I held out my hand and said, "David, pleased to meet you," in that formal way my mom had taught me.
That drew her smile and it was a good smile. I liked that she didn't bleach her teeth and her bottom teeth were slightly crooked. I made her human rather than a Barbie doll.
"Arlene," she said, taking my hand in a good grip and shaking it, "pleased to meet you, David."
I liked her voice too. Just a bit husky, suggesting she was, or at least had been, a smoker. It was soft too, almost out of place coming from her face.
You can cut a few yards of stock dialogue - younger man, mature woman, bar, you get the scene - and you'll have it.
We wound up at her place that night and by the next morning, I knew I would be marrying this woman.
All of that was before her first spanking of course.
Anyway, back to the present.
She greeted me with a beer, a smile, and a kiss.
She always tried to look her best on Wednesday when she knew after a MOTH meeting I'd probably be keyed up. Today was no different. She had on her bra, a sheer thing with a carefully measured 8 inches of cleavage on display as well as her nipples, clearly visible through the sheer material, her apron giving her a delightfully domestic look, the special tights I had bought her two Christmases ago with the wide belt cinched tightly at her waist and her bare ass lifted and displayed by the straps, and her red pumps doing good things for her legs.
"You look terrific," I said, taking a sip of my beer and then holding still while she took my jacket off and hung it carefully.
She blushed prettily and said, "thank you, honey, I try."
